


after this, because of this

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Steve, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4323267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>steve rogers regrets returning to washington. bucky barnes provides an olive branch, by other means.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after this, because of this

**Author's Note:**

> baby's first smut fic. inspired by [this](http://softpunkbucky.tumblr.com/post/121995002402/faun-songs-bonrealprophecies-oppai-tho-this) and the fabulous [ipoiledi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ipoiledi).

“Won’t _believe_ the week I’ve had,” Steve groans, the second he’s got his foot in the door to his apartment.

Being the leader and de facto public face of the Avengers, _Captain Rogers—_ along with Maria Hill, in place of an as-of-now-still-deceased Nick Fury—was called in to speak at a special congressional committee on continued action against Hydra. It was an exhausting few days, most of which were spent with war hawks and lobbyists and all sort of Washington regulars pushing their far-from-transparent agendas. The political manipulation was enraging, but constant for the entire course of the committee, and within the first three hours, Steve was already about ninety percent sure of who was working for Hydra, who sympathized with Hydra, and who was using complicated jargon to hide the fact that they had absolutely _no idea_ what they were talking about.

Bucky pecks Steve on the cheek and takes his luggage aside. “You at least play nice? No fights at sleepaway camp? They won’t invite you back next year if you weren’t nice to the other kids, y’know.”

“Always full ’a shit, Barnes,” Steve gripes, but he pulls Bucky in by the hips, anyway. He sweeps his eyes over Bucky, just once, just to look at him, then more slowly. Tight blue jeans, red flannel shirt, hair combed neatly and cropped close. Must’ve gotten a haircut. Steve sighs. Taking him in is like a breath of fresh air. “You look good.”

“ _Always_ look good, Rogers, why’re you acting surprised?” Bucky teases, pushing closer into Steve’s personal space.

“Shut up,” Steve says, and before Bucky can say anything else, Steve shuts him up, pulling him into a kiss. Bucky tastes like coffee and sugar, warm and earthy and just the right amount of sweet. Nothing like the cold instant coffee he’d been offered at the hearing. He sighs into the kiss, the tension and frustration that he’d held for the past few days easing and ebbing, replaced by warmth and satisfaction and _relief._ He’s happy to be home.

Supersoldiers—enhanced stamina and all—still need to breathe, and eventually, they break the kiss: Steve pulls away first, nipping at Bucky’s plush bottom lip in the process. Their breaths are shallow, and Steve thinks he can feel Bucky’s heart beating as he works to get that shirt off. His fingers fumble as he works to undo Bucky’s button-up from his body, and it takes all that Steve has not to pop the buttons off in one quick pull, but there’s a flash of blue underneath the flannel, and— _oh._

“Jesus Christ, Buck,” Steve breathes, “ _Jesus H. Christ._ ”

Underneath that unassuming flannel button-up, Bucky is wearing the tightest goddamn shirt Steve has ever seen, a thin, blue thing that clings tightly to the planes of Bucky’s body, with Steve’s own shield printed right in the middle. As Bucky moves to shrug the flannel off, the shield bends and stretches over his wide chest, teasing Steve with a hint of the broad muscle underneath.

Steve’s never been happier to be home in his _life._

He grabs a handful of Bucky’s chest and kisses him again, groping and kneading and running the pad of his thumb along Bucky’s nipple. Part of him wants Buck out of that shirt _now,_ wants to feel Bucky’s warm chest and soft skin under his fingers. Another part of him wants Bucky to fuck him into wordlessness with nothing _but_ that tight goddamn shirt on. Steve must have been thinking on this for a while, because this time, it’s Bucky who breaks the kiss, breathless and pupils wide.

“We gonna go, or are you just gonna stand here playing with my tits all day?” he asks, voice low.

“Let’s go,” Steve says, stripping out of his shirt, then his pants, then his tight little boxer briefs, throwing them lazily onto the floor, “You gotta carry me, though. Don’t got the strength to walk to the bedroom. All those suits at Capitol Hill drained it outta me.”

“Damn, Rogers, a week there and Washington’s already changed you. Fucking diva,” Bucky laughs, but he does as he’s told, hoisting Steve over his shoulder like nothing—like he’s not two-hundred and forty pounds of muscle, like he’s still ninety pounds of bones and righteous anger.

Bucky lays Steve on their shared California King gently, effortlessly, and kneels between Steve’s legs. “What do you want me to do for you, baby? Can’t do nothing if you don’t tell me,” he murmurs, slipping his belt off.

He pops the button on his jeans, and _God,_ Steve could live and die for this view. People talk big about the Grand Canyon, or the ocean at sunset, but Steve’s sure that this—Bucky between his legs, the light hitting him just so, button undone on his jeans and wearing a _Captain America_ shirt that looks like it’s straining itself just to keep from popping off— _this_ is a view he could write novels on.

“Want you inside me, Buck. Wanna be yours,” Steve breathes, feeling hot and needy. Bucky smiles—an ‘ _I can do that’_ without so many words—and goes to pull at the hem of his shirt, but not before Steve can blurt, “No, no, leave it on.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright, baby,” Bucky murmurs sweetly. He leans in to kiss Steve, messy and wet, palming Steve’s dick with his left hand. Steve rolls his hips into Bucky’s touch, and Bucky rubs at Steve’s dick _just enough_ to leave him hungry and desperate and needing more. Steve moans, lips parted and pink, and he tries to chase Bucky’s lips, tries to find him again, but Bucky has shifted, notched up against the crook of Steve’s neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin beneath. It’s too brief, it’s far too brief, but then Bucky shifts, and there’s a small pop, the flip of a plastic cap, and Steve can feel his blush spread down to his navel.

“God,” Steve breathes, low and soft. Bucky takes his left hand off Steve’s dick and anchors it against Steve’s thigh, while his right hand, warm and slick with lube, teases Steve’s hole. He pushes his finger into Steve slowly, so very slowly, going down to the knuckle. Steve whines as Bucky strokes inside him, gently grazing all those spots that drive Steve to the edge and back. He slides his index finger out, just enough to ready Steve’s hole for another, and Steve barely manages to bite back a whimper, not that it gets past Bucky at all.

“Loud as hell today, aren’t you?” Bucky asks. It’s a rhetorical question, something to do with his mouth while he’s busy slicking up and fingering Steve, “It was a _week_ in DC. You had work. Couldn’t’ve missed all me that much.”

“Missed your dick, jerk. Didn’t— _ah_ —didn’t miss your shit-talking,” Steve manages, but with Bucky two fingers into him, stroking and teasing and slowly, slowly opening him up to adding a third, Steve can barely get that out.

“What’re you gonna do when they clear me for the field again? Can’t have you showing up and sucking my dick in the middle of a firefight,” Bucky says, just another rhetorical question to fill the silence as he torturously, methodically, _tactically_ works Steve open. For a second, Steve thinks about it, thinks about Bucky’s dick in his mouth, and with Bucky’s fingers inside him, grazing his prostate, he groans, low and _hungry_.

“Later—we’ll deal with that later,” Steve breathes, breathy and desperate. “Just—just get inside of me.”

Bucky gives a little mock-salute with his left hand, and Steve watches with rapt attention as Bucky pulls his fingers out of him to slick his huge, hard cock. The moments between Bucky taking his fingers out of him and finally— _finally_ —being fucked feel like the longest moments in Steve’s life, but it’s mesmerizing to watch Bucky, to take in all of him: the way his brow furrows, the delicate bow of his lips, the flex of his broad shoulders under that tight blue fabric as he hikes Steve’s legs up and pins him down by the wrists. Sometimes, Steve itches to draw Bucky like this—all hard lines and broad muscle and _control._ He just doesn’t know if he’d do the moment justice, doesn’t know if he could capture the heat of it, doesn’t think he’d even want to share it, in the first place.

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve moans, as Bucky moves inside of him, slow and rhythmic, edging deeper and deeper with each thrust of his hips, “Oh, oh my _God_ , Buck, oh, _oh—_ ”

“Feel so good, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve can hardly take it. Bucky is thick—he’s so, so thick—and it leaves Steve’s entire body feeling raw and hypersensitive and _needy_. He wants to hold Bucky, to wrap his arms around him, to be close. He wants to feel Bucky’s bulk pressed against his. But he likes this too much—likes Bucky pinning him down, likes it rough and dirty. He likes this too much to complain.

Steve’s moans have descended into quick, shuddery breaths, and he feels close—he feels _damn_ close. He’s talking at Bucky between breaths— _yes, God, Buck, oh, yes—_ little fragments of praise as Bucky edges him closer and closer to completely coming apart. Then Bucky thrusts into him quick and hard and hits just the right spot, and Steve loses it. With a full-body shudder and a noise that he’s sure the entire block can hear, Steve comes, hot and sticky all over his stomach. For a second, he’s convinced he’s small again, grasping at the sheets and struggling to breathe. _Jesus._

Bucky meets his eyes, taking his hands off Steve’s wrists and bringing them to his hips. Steve can feel bruises blooming there, where Bucky had pinned him down, but they’ll be gone before anyone outside of that room will notice. “Hey, you want me to pull out, or—?”

“No—no. I want you to come inside me,” Steve pants, and Bucky nods, biting his bottom lip and fucking Steve through the aftershocks. _God,_ he’s beautiful, Steve thinks, and he wonders how he got so damn lucky. Bucky is relentless, and within three quick thrusts of his hips, he’s gone, filling Steve up with a jerk and a moan. He pulls out slowly, carefully, and all but collapses on the mattress next to Steve, exhausted and breathless. They lie there like that for a bit, sweaty and exhausted and absolutely _spent_.

“This shirt,” Steve murmurs, after they’ve both caught their breath. He squeezes close to Bucky, tucking himself neatly against Bucky’s chest, fucked-out and sticky and exhausted, “I really fucking like this shirt.”

“Thought you would,” Bucky replies, mindlessly carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. They’re both covered in sweat, and the shirt will need a good washing, for sure, but Steve doesn’t care. “You seemed pretty stressed when I called you. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. Make your trip seem like it was worth it.”

Steve smiles, feeling something warm and bubbly in his chest, something completely unrelated to having been completely taken apart just moments before. “Well. I mean, the flight was rough. I’m convinced that half the Congressmen have no idea what Hydra is, and the other half _are_ Hydra—but. I _did_ get to watch you go at me in this tight little thing, so yeah. I think it might be worth it.”

**Author's Note:**

> major thanks to my betas, [emily](http://littlebuckyboo.tumblr.com/) and [snow](http://roma-nov.tumblr.com/), and to anyone willing to listen to me wax poetic about beefy bucky.


End file.
